


Perfect Fit

by redteeth



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Adultery, Alpha Eddie, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Betrayal, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Internal Conflict, Intersex Waylon, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Mpreg, Omega Waylon, Rape/Non-con Elements, Weird Biology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 02:37:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14632332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redteeth/pseuds/redteeth
Summary: Waylon has just survived falling through the roof of the Vocational Block when he gets his first whiff of it. The heady and pungent stink of rut.





	Perfect Fit

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write an ABO version of Whistleblower; I followed the canon events pretty closely for most of it, with a lot of added details, so I hope that's not too boring. Male omegas in this version of ABO have both male and female sex organs, so if that puts you off a lot, please don't read. 
> 
> This is unrelated to my other ongoing fic and so it has completely different characterization. I wanted the other story to skirt the line of consent. This one very definitely does not. Please heed the noncon tags.

Waylon has just survived falling through the roof of the Vocational Block when he gets his first whiff of it. The heady and pungent stink of _rut_.  
  
He had, stupidly, tried to jump across a gap several stories up. As he sits up slowly from the concrete floor, he realizes he's lucky he survived the fall. He's panting, the exhaustion wringing him out, and he's slow to pick himself up, catching his breath in the dark space of the attic. It's quiet and warm, almost a relief after being out in the cold night fog.  
  
That's when he first pulls the scent of rut into his mouth. He shudders.  
  
He's been running for hours, almost getting out more than once, before hitting walls or fences or barricaded doors, or violent patients, and being forced to double back inside, to duck and hide. He has been lucky in many ways, so far. The patients altogether are a wreck, most of them too disoriented and traumatized to cause him any trouble. The few that have given him trouble are pretty straightforward in their desire to murder him, but he has escaped them so far.  
  
But he's seen things. He's seen men masturbating over corpses, their hormones ravaging their bodies, driving them to find a hole, any hole, to fuck into. He had hidden under a desk as a gang of betas chased down a smaller patient, air thick with distress, and forced him to submit to them on the filthy asylum floor. He had glimpsed, through a vent, an alpha patient in pre-rut fucking a beta doctor, scenting blood on the air as he forced his knot inside and laid bonding bites over the man's neck as he screamed.  
  
He knows that there are worse things that can be done to him than murder.  
  
He had been told, when he first arrived at Mount Massive, that the patients were all male betas. Same as the staff. It was important that they were male betas; the Morphogenic Engine had undesirable effects on people of other genders. But they were still given heavy suppressants and hormone blockers all the same, to keep them complacent, to keep them impotent and sexless. The air in the halls had been a thick soup of chemical scents, before.  
  
He doesn't know why Murkoff told him they were all betas. Maybe it was to keep him and the rest of the less informed staff from getting nervous. Alphas and omegas alike aren't well liked by the majority of betas, due to their fluctuating biologies, and a long and complex history. Betas were a servant class for a long time, their only purpose caring for the many children of the elite omegas. Many grandparents still remember a time when that was their reality.  
  
The other employees had complained endlessly about the blockers' smell, about how it made their nostrils and the roofs of their mouths burn. Waylon hadn't minded. He was used to the scent. He had been on suppressants and blockers since he'd presented as a teen, procured and sent to him secretly by his father. It's not that omegas had it all that bad, really. It's not like he would have been forced into breeding by the time he turned eighteen, like young omegas and alphas had been only a scant sixty years before he was born.  
  
It was just that there were so many more doors open to betas. His parents wanted him to have every opportunity. Like getting into Berkley, getting internships, getting better pay.  
  
Like getting the job at Murkoff. They were only hiring male betas. Waylon had assumed it was a sexism thing.  
  
No one had commented on Waylon's lack of scent while he was working at Murkoff. Plenty of betas chose to take pills these days, when they weren't trying to breed. Keeps the head clear. Shows others that you're not available.  
  
Now, the chemical scent has waned, and the primary scents are blood, piss and shit, along with the metallic bite of the nanotechnology that comprises the Walrider. And the sickening smell of hundreds of men coming off of their suppressants for the first time in years.  
  
There are still a lot of betas. But there are a sparse number of alphas too. Waylon had been choking on the odor of pre-rut all night.  
  
Waylon's in better shape, in that department. The suppressants the patients were given were low quality, 12 hour injections, industrial strength, quick to work and quick to leave the system. Waylon's were oral, a slow build and a slow descent. He missed his last few doses, since they'd been keeping him working nights at Mount Massive, but he has days left before he'll feel symptoms.  
  
At this point, he's more concerned with surviving, and making sure no one tries to get in his pants. He doesn't want to think about what would happen if one of the men found out what he's got between his legs.  
  
Which is why scenting the air and catching the smell of full rut makes him tremble down to his bones. The few alpha patients he had encountered were still half a day out from succumbing to their full rut, but the alpha Waylon is scenting is already there. Has been for _hours_. Rut increases the senses, as well as strength and stamina, intended to help the alpha keep up with the long, demanding stretch of an omega's heat.  
  
A full rut alpha would be impossible to fight off. And a full rut alpha might be able to smell him through what remained of his blockers, if he got close enough.  
  
He pushes himself up from the floor, steeling. He'll just have to avoid whoever is putting off the pheromones. Waylon's discovered that there is one thing he can do well, and it's running, and hiding, and slipping away from danger. He can do it again.  
  
He feels less and less certain, as he makes his way through the winding network of shelves and walls, and the scent grows. It's an animal smell, musky and ripe and earthy, but tinged with sickness, like everything in this place.  
  
Waylon overhears some men talking about goats, while he's straining to move silently past. He nearly pisses himself when a patient pushes his deformed face through a shelf and hisses warnings at him that Waylon's too panicked to parse.  
  
Things come to a head when he's attacked by a huge beta, ranting to himself in voices that Waylon could have sworn were different people.  
  
Later, Waylon will realize he'd been driven. In the moment, he is just grateful when, at last, he finds the stairs to the lower floor, and scrambles down into the dark.  
  
  
  
  
The alpha smell is stronger here. The man chasing him pulls up the staircase. No way back. Waylon starts to suspect he's made a mistake.  
  
He thanks his father silently for the suppressants in his system. The rut smell of an alpha this virile would have sent any unbonded omega into heat by now. But his body thankfully doesn't respond to the pheromones as he winds his way through the block, skirting around tables installed with antique sewing machines, encountering sealed door after sealed door. He can't shake the feeling that he's being herded as he tugs fruitlessly on another handle.  
  
In the distance, he swears he hears music. The alpha smell grows stronger. Distinctly unpleasant, bilious. Something's _wrong_ with it.  
  
Waylon turns a corner and startles back. A tableau of corpses is arranged on a table. A man with his legs wide, a decapitated head settled between them. A beta, but with a hacked incision between his legs, under his penis, where his testicles were torn away and a hole stabbed into him, resembling an omega's vagina. A decapitated head juts from it, eyes wide and unseeing. Like a birth. The smell of their dead flesh is acrid and fresh. Waylon stumbles back, his already raw bare feet scrabbling on the concrete, cutting his soles on the small shards of debris, the sticky spots of blood collecting in the dust.  
  
Waylon clenches his thighs. He moves forward. He tries to control his breathing. Tries not to pull the rut pheromones into his mouth.  
  
He tugs on another handle, a door that looks promising, but let's him down again. When he looks up, bright eyes meet his through the narrow window.  
  
"Darling!"  
  
Waylon jerks back, nearly falling to the floor. The man on the other side is grinning wide, teeth white and straight in his scarred face. He's massive, a head taller than Waylon, thick bodied. Definitely an alpha body. He's dressed oddly, in a vest and bowtie, and Waylon thinks for a moment that maybe he's not a patient after all, but then he looks at his face again. He's looking at Waylon hungrily through the barred door.  
  
Waylon catches the scent then, through the cracks in the door. Alpha. Rut.  
  
Waylon shudders, and scrambles away, but the man on the other side is already moving away through the dark, and Waylon loses sight of him. He searches the walls in the dark, the night vision function eating up the battery in his camera, but there's no other way through.  
  
He's cornered.  
  
Waylon feels the first twinges in his belly. The omega flight instinct. His stomach drops, and he goes to his knees, climbing underneath a sewing table as he hears the distant quite scrape of a door, and the man murmuring. The alpha scent gets sharper.  
  
The flight instinct is the urge to flee an undesirable alpha, and alternatively, to test a potentially desirable alpha. Waylon grinds his teeth. He still has suppressants in his system. He shouldn't be feeling this particular sensation at all.  
  
The man is murmuring gentle words, close enough now that Waylon can make them out. "You don't have to be alone anymore." Waylon's blood runs cold. "I could fill that emptiness inside you."  
  
Does he know?? Waylon pulls the collar of his jumpsuit to his nose, breathing in, but only picking up the faintest trace of his own scent. The blockers still lingering on his skin hide him completely, down to his sweat and fear. The man hadn't gotten close enough. He couldn't know already. So why would he say these things?  
  
"Let me fill you up."  
  
The alpha passes the table Waylon's hidden under, a nearly silent shuffle of fabric in the dark, the smell of his rut rolling off of his body in thick waves. In order to be this far into it, Waylon thinks, he must have not been given his last several shots, and not offered any relief; most ruts end naturally in a few hours, but a post-suppressant rut usually requires omega pheromone, or at least a toy to knot. The smell is prolonged, laced with pain. There's a twinge in his chest at the cruelty of Murkoff, to force a person to experience this.  
  
This deep in, the desperation to breed would be crushing. Waylon remembers his first and only heat as a boy, where he had prayed and prayed for an alpha, ANY alpha, to find their way into his room and sink their cock into him. He was still capable of thought, would still have been capable of saying no, but he fantasized about it. Still fantasized about it, occassionally, if he was being honest.  
  
Waylon thinks about the birthing scene, the beta with a cunt stabbed into him. Not just an alpha helplessly lost in rut. An insane man. It must be agony, not understanding what's happening, not knowing how to stop it.  
  
Waylon eases out when the man reaches the back of the room, but Waylon can't help but turn his camera on him as he slips away. In the green night vision, he sees the filth that covers the man's formal styled clothing, the thick stitching that holds the vest and pants together.  
  
In the halls, Waylon slips as silently as he can muster, past the dress forms and the chalkboards. He pauses when he sees a form wearing the same thick, tight stitching as the alpha's clothing; an omega wedding gown, pieced together like Frankenstein's monster. Waylon darts past, but not before he feels a wire in his chest pull tight.  
  
Anticipation. He ignores it.  
  
" _When I was a boy my mother often said to me, be bonded boy and see how happy you will be..._ "  
  
In the distance, he hears the alpha singing. Waylon might think, if he weren't scared out of his mind, that his voice wasn't bad.  
  
" _I have looked all over, but no omega can I find, who seems to be just like the little mate I have in mind..._ "  
  
He bites down on his lower lip and shoves it out of his thoughts, ignores the heat in his belly, the urge to test and tease. This isn't a normal alpha, he tries to remind himself. His body doesn't know better. But he can overcome this. He knows he won't go into heat. The worst that will happen is that it will start putting out signal pheromones. Which can't happen, considering how fucking scared he is.  
  
"Don't run from me!" Waylon stumbles as he rounds a corner in the twisting labyrinth of the block, and somehow the alpha catches sight of him. The voice is vicious, angry. He doesn't stop to see where the man is. He takes off running, his camera clenched in his fist. He hits a dead end, a heavy metal cabinet blocking the door, and he puts his shoulder to it and shoves. He glimpses the alpha in the dark, rounding the tables.  
  
"You could be so beautiful! I want you to have my baby..."  
  
He's so fast, Waylon thinks, a simultaneous jolt of horror and excitement running down his spine. So fast and strong. Then he feels sick, disgusted at himself.  
  
Waylon bolts. He doesn't stop to film, just charges through each empty room and hall. They're all devoid of life, of patients hiding in corners, of crazy men lurking behind every obstacle.  
  
It's his territory, Waylon realizes. And he just wandered into it. Rutting alphas feel a particular possessiveness over territory, and everything and everyone in it. He might as well have walked up to the man and presented. The alpha would read it all the same way, even if he weren't completely crazy.  
  
He pushes himself harder, the voice of the alpha roaring behind him. He can't know. He can't _know_.  
  
He rounds a corner and catches sight of the elevator door, gate standing open. The elevator is stuck below the floor, but there is a ladder up the far wall, an easy jump. Waylon tucks the camera away and leaps it just as the alpha rounds the corner behind him.  
  
As he hits the rungs, and feels the old ladder shudder under his impact, he remembers the last time he made a leap like this. He really should have learned from that.  
  
The ladder pulls away from the wall and the rungs fall away under his feet and hands, and then he's crashing to the floor. Fiery pain shoots up his legs, and he cries out, his voice strangled in his ears. His foot had punched through the ceiling of the elevator, and there's a shard of wood jutting from it; as he tugs it out, he has to clamp his jaw shut to keep himself from releasing a distress call.  
  
The alpha smell spikes with genuine fear. "Oh god! Are you okay?! Tell me you're okay!"  
  
The urge to call intensifies as Waylon staggers to his feet. Here's a strong alpha, his instincts scream, a strong alpha to protect you. A psychopath, his rational mind argues back, who will probably stab me to death long before he realizes I'm actually an omega. And who might rape me if he realizes I am.  
  
"Why would you do something like that to yourself?!" The alpha is saying, voice radiating real sadness, and Waylon cranes his neck to look up at the man, more than a floor above him. "You'd rather... Rather die than be with me?"  
  
Waylon opens his mouth, the omega distress call on the back of his tongue. But then the man's face changes, and he rasps, "Then die."  
  
See? He tells his stupid body as the gate slides closed above him, and the elevator jerks into motion. His body, directly threatened by the alpha, finally, _thankfully_ listens, his instinctual urge to call out receding. Waylon pulls himself through the opening onto a lower floor before the elevator raises all the way, hearing a growl of dismay from the alpha above him through the thin floors.  
  
His leg is on fire, the puncture bleeding sluggishly, as he limps through the halls. The alpha scent is still strong here; he's still in the man's territory. Even deeper, it seems like. It's made even more clear by the messages scrawled on the walls, the blood spattered along the floors, the conspicuous lack of patients. The shelves in each room are arranged to form blockades, and he suspects with growing terror that he's being herded again.  
  
Like a good little goat.  
  
There's a dead end, again, and he panics as he scents the alpha growing nearer again. He's chasing him. Waylon's wounded. He can't run.  
  
He tugs on a door, and then startles away as he catches a glimpse of the man passing by through the glass. His voice carries and echoes through the halls. "There's something special about you. When anybody with eyes to see looks at what you truly are... That's why they don't trust you."  
  
He panics, and even as he's slipping into the locker, he knows that the alpha is going to catch him.  
  
Waylon stifles his breathing in the confined space of the locker, choking down his own frightened panting. His instincts are frayed; the rut smell doesn't matter, the chase doesn't matter. He just knows the man is going to kill him.  
  
"Close, I can..." Waylon hears the man enter the room. There is a long, meaningful pause, the silence a weight over him as he tries to hold his breath. "Ah, the smell of my love's ardor. Darling, you can't hide from _me_."  
  
Waylon stomach turns over as the alpha's scarred face appears in the slot in the door of the locker, as he locks it from the outside.  
  
The alpha scent changes, spiking into excitement. Arousal. Waylon knows.  
  
The alpha's scented him.  
  
  
  
The locker screams as the alpha pulls it from the wall and lays it flat, and Waylon jostles inside it, head banging against the metal as if falls to the floor. His camera slips from his hands and thunks to the floor between his legs, unreachable in the tight space. His ears are ringing, and his eyes are watering from the heaviness of the rut pheromones, intensifying as the alpha picks up more of his whisper faint omega scent. The alpha is moaning, something about unwrapping, and Waylon feels sick as the scarred, bright eyed face appears upside down in the slot, grinning at him. He can already see the effects, the man's pupils blowing wide and dark as he pulls away, and hoists the locker with Waylon inside.  
  
Strong, his traitorous body whispers. Fuck _off_ , he thinks.  
  
"I've been a little... vulgar. I know, and I want to say I'm sorry. I just... you know how an alpha gets, when he wants to know an omega." The alpha grunts as he drags the locker. Without the night vision, it's pitch black; Waylon has no idea where he's taking him. "But after the bonding, when I've made an honest omega of you... I promise I'll be a different man."  
  
Waylon's chest tightens. He can't breathe. He needs to run. He can't let this man... He can't let... Oh god, _Lisa_.  
  
There's a flash of light, a modern fixture set in the ceiling. Then the alpha's face appears again. "I want a family, a legacy. To be the father I never had. I'll never let anything happen to our children. Not like..." He sounds so determined. Waylon knows the man is crazy, that he can't believe it.  
  
There's a lurching feeling, and then the locker tilts again, tipping up. A room comes into view. Stark lighting. A table soaked in blood. Waylon's breath catches in his throat again as the alpha steps into view.  
  
"You'll have to wait here. I know you must be as eager as I am to consummate our love." He lays his hand over the slot on the locker, almost lovingly. Waylon catches more of his fresh scent, heady and sour. "But try to enjoy the anticipation."  
  
The alpha moves to the side, and then he's putting something up to the slot. Waylon scents chemicals, and then they're flooding the locker, and he gags. "Here, Darling. This will help you relax."  
  
Waylon chokes, collapsing against the back of the locker, trying to force the chemical gas out of his lungs, but there's nothing else to breathe in. His vision goes dark. His skin feels hot. The last thing he notices before he collapses is the mask being removed from the slot, letting in the scent of the alpha's rut.  
  
He's asleep for twelve hours. Twelve hours breathing in rut pheromones. He's been off his suppressants for days.  
   
  
  
The return to consciousness is a slow struggle. He hears the noises first, a gurgling. His body is numb as he pushes himself up from the half crouch he'd fallen into inside the narrow space. His leg doesn't even hurt.  
  
Through the slot in the locker door, he sees a man struggling, tied to the table. He's a beta, which Waylon is sure of because the man is naked from the waist down, displaying his flaccid knotless cock and small testes.  
  
Waylon blinks slowly, then closes his eyes, and suddenly he realizes he'd drifted off, pulling himself up from his crouch again. His knees are shaking. Blurrily, he sees shapes through the slot, and hears a metallic sound, and the alpha's voice.  
  
"Darling, I need you to try to _bleed less_." The beta on the table is screaming and pleading. The alpha doesn't even seem to hear him, moving between Waylon and the beta, something dark clenched in his hand. "I know the fairer sex often endure the same wounds with more suffering, but you really need to make an effort."  
  
The alpha hunches over the man, and he turns his arm, the light catching the blade of a long knife. And then he jerks his arm viciously, burying it between the beta's legs.  
  
Waylon still too drugged to react, his body still lacking sensation, his senses dulled. He watches the alpha carve into the man's groin, and then drop his knife and clutch at the beta's dying body, shaking him... And then the beta is gone, or close to it, and the alpha sighs. "No... I'm so sorry, Darling. Love isn't for everybody."  
  
Waylon's vision blurs again and he feels his body give out under him as the alpha shoves the body from the table. His head and throat feel strange and hot.  
  
He wonders, _insanely_ , why the man is carving up betas when he has a perfectly good omega _right here_.  
  
The next time, it's the alpha's voice that cuts through his dark haze. "Hold still now, Darling."  
  
Waylon feels his hackles raise as his vision clears. The alpha has a new man, another beta patient it looks like, lying sideways across the table, supine and compliant. He has one of the man's thighs hiked up over his shoulder, stroking his thigh, up his chest. Like a lover. Waylon's stomach rolls. "All these unsightly hairs. Oh! Silky smooth. Just like a little girl again."  
  
Waylon's fingers find the locker door, pushing at it clumsily. It's still locked tight.  
  
"Now the more delicate bits," the alpha says, and Waylon's ear catches the metallic scrape of the knife. As the alpha slices through the man's chest, and then puts his weight onto the blade, cracking the man's pelvic floor with a sick crunch, Waylon's head tips back, and he slips away again.  
  
The last time, he hears strangled screaming, and he rolls his head out of the awkward angle it had fallen into against the back of the locker. "You've given up," the alpha's voice says quietly. "You're ugly and you've given up on love."  
  
Waylon pushes himself up again. His body hurts all over. The drugs starting to wear off. His leg throbs. His whole body itches.  
  
"You're not even worth stringing up." Waylon focuses his eyes, and sees yet another man on all fours on the table, his head bowed over the whirring circular saw set in the far end. This man is an alpha. Waylon can smell his scent, fainter. Submissive. His body is scarred and bloody.  
  
The rutting alpha stands over him, the light trailing strangely off the white of his shirt.  
  
"Bleed here and die."  
  
Then he shoves the man face first into the saw.  
  
Part of Waylon, primitive and stupid, _thrills_. Nothing proves an alpha _worthy_ like killing another alpha.  
  
As he slips, for the last time, back into the drugged blackness, he feels a throb in his belly. Almost pleasant.  
  
  
  
When he opens his eyes again, he sees a light, and the blurry shapes of his own arms. His body is numb and warm. The alpha must have gassed him again.  
  
He shifts, and then his eyes fly wide. He can't move his arms and legs. He feels air on his skin as he flexes his limbs, and realizes he's naked.  
  
He hears a slick sound, and a wet breath. He jerks his head up, and looks down at his naked body. The alpha is standing between his legs, hips pushing his bound thighs apart. His bright gaze is fixated on Waylon's body. One of his wide, leather-gloved hands is working along the length of his thick alpha cock, jutting out from his unbuttoned pants. It's obscene, purple and wet at the head, like he's been hard for hours.  
  
His other hand... It's dipped out of sight between Waylon's legs.  
  
Waylon grunts, and tries to twist away, sensation returning. He flexes his pelvis, and that's when he feels it.  
  
Two of the alpha's thick fingers pushed up inside his cunt.  
  
He lets out a frantic, wailing sound. His omegan distress cry. The alpha doesn't even look up, just strokes his cock faster. His mouth is open wide, pulling Waylon's scent in. He's salivating heavily, drool dripping down his chin.  
  
An animal.  
  
Waylon sobs as the fingers inside him wriggle and hook. He's never been penetrated like this. On suppressants, he had no urge to. Lisa had eaten him out, occasionally pushed in one slim finger while sucking his cock, but it had all been gentle. He hasn't ever had an exam, even. Lisa had born their children, because she had wanted to, and she wanted to keep his secret.  
  
He was never supposed to feel this. He was never supposed to go through this again.  
  
And he can feel it, a certainty, building under his skin. Pre-heat.  
  
"Stop," he pleads, even as his pussy throbs around the alpha's fingers. He pulls harder at the ropes holding his arms high, and the ones holding his legs apart. The alpha grunts, deep in his chest. God, the smell of him. His cock is so _big_.  
  
"I knew you were special," the alpha growls, eyes still fixed on the point where his fingers are penetrating the omega. His pupils are wide and black, the icy blue receding to a narrow rim. Waylon knows what he looks like between his own legs, soft and pink, his pubic hair scant, light and wispy, typical of omegas. "You have amazing bone structure. Such soft skin. You're so beautiful. We'll have beautiful children."  
  
The distress cry tears out of him again, and the alpha ignores it again. Waylon scent is dense with fear. Waylon wonders if the man had even noticed his scent, or how it was affecting his rut. Maybe that was why he had attacked the others, trying to cut the hole he needed into them, before he had brought out Waylon. Maybe he'd pulled him out of the locker and stripped his jumpsuit off of his limp body, and hadn't even realized what he had on his table until he pulled Waylon's legs apart and saw the lips of his pussy spread underneath his small omega cock.  
  
The alpha presses closer, and Waylon tenses, thinking he's going to fuck him. But the man only rubs the head of his cock on Waylon's thigh, his belly, smearing precome along his skin. Marking. Perhaps knowing instinctually that Waylon's not in heat yet, that he's not ready. But that he will be.  
  
"An omega... has to suffer some things. It's not pleasant, I know," the alpha says, his words slurring, like he's drunk. He might as well be. His fingers jab roughly in Waylon's cunt and Waylon jerks. He realizes he's wet, the man's fingers making a sticky sound as they scissor in his tight hole, spreading him. Too wide, and not nearly wide enough. "But just try to... endure. For my sake. For the sake of our children."  
  
Waylon's body goes cold as the man eases back. He's going to fuck him. He's going to fuck him and knot him. His virginal cunt will split and bleed on a knot, outside of heat. "Don't," he says, another omega whine crawling up his throat. It's like the alpha can't even hear him. "Please don't, just-"  
  
"I don't even need to make a cut. Not like those other _sluts_. Such a soft place, to welcome my seed," the alpha groans softly, his hand tightening over the base of his cock, where his knot will pop. "To grow our family."  
  
"Stop, just, j-just, wait-"  
  
"The conception will hurt. And birthing is never easy." The alpha turns his wide, blown eyes up to Waylon's, penetrating, looking right through him. "Just close your eyes and think of our _children_."  
  
The alpha pulls his fingers free and rubs the head of his cock up against Waylon's tight hole, and Waylon goes rigid, whimpering deep in his throat. The head is hot and soaking wet against his labia. And then the man leans over him, enveloping him in his rich alpha scent, and _pushes_ , and the pain is searing as the head, millimeter by slick millimeter, presses in-  
  
And then the pain is gone, and the alpha is gone, and Waylon is tumbling across the floor. The rickety wooden structure he'd been tied into had broken apart when a patient, a stranger, had charged the alpha and struck him in the head. The two men tumble over each other across the filthy floor as Waylon sucks in a wet breath through his tears and struggles free of the broken breeding cage, his legs nearly going out from under him as he staggers to his feet. His camera and his discarded jumpsuit are lying nearby, and he grapples with them frantically, trying to cover himself.  
  
The alpha's scent spikes sharply, swearing violence, and he looks up just in time to see the beta patient land a blow to his chin, doing almost nothing to slow him. The patient gives Waylon a wide-eyed glance, and then he bolts.  
  
"Get back here!" The alpha snarls, following the man into the dark, tucking his still hard dick away. As if he's forgotten Waylon was there. The urge to kill greater than the urge to breed. "You're not done dying you slut!"  
  
Waylon limps toward a far door, desperate to put some distance between himself and the alpha. He hears struggling in a far room. As he moves, the drug in his system metabolizes and sensation comes back slowly. His leg is on fire, and his cunt aches from having the alpha's fingers in it. He feels the certain and foreboding creep of pre-heat on his skin, the cramping in the small of his back and the ache of his nipples, the same as that first and only time.  
  
He must have been out for hours while he was in the locker, but it wouldn't have been long enough. He'd taken suppressants regularly until only three days ago. He should have had weeks before he came off of them. Why, why, why-  
  
The alpha's scent changes, the aggression tapering off, becoming welcoming again. He'd won, Waylon guesses, and tamps down on yet another thrill, his traitorous body still eager despite the violence the man had enacted so far. There'd be no convincing his biology now, now that heat was imminent. His instincts demand that he breed, one way or another.  
  
"There you are, Darling. Come back to me," Waylon catches a glimpse of the alpha's shape through the mesh gate. He's in another workshop, and he ducks under a table as the man moves out of sight, rounding the shelves on the far end of the room. In the dark, the man won't be able to see him, but he'll be able to smell him, and so Waylon slips through the shadows as the alpha circles the room, keeping his distance.  
  
The alpha growls when he seeks out the first table, scenting him, and doesn't find him. "I'm trying to be patient, Darling."  
  
Waylon takes a shuddering breath, pushes himself up, and runs.  
  
His leg is white-hot with pain and the air sharpens with the alpha's anger, burning his lungs and throat. The alpha charges after him. "Why would you do this to me?!"  
  
The alpha knows his territory, but it's dark, and Waylon has the camera and its night vision. The rooms are a blur, a hall, a workshop, a hall. Waylon stumbles around more dress forms, easels. And then he sees a brightness in the corner of his eye, catches the scent of rain and night air. A bright hall light illuminating a broken, open window.  
  
"All of you, whores!" the alpha screams. Waylon doesn't think twice. He's through.  
  
The fall is only a story to the misty courtyard below. On impact, Waylon's vision goes red and dark from the pain, clutching his busted leg in the wet grass, omegan distress call clawing up from his chest. There is no one to hear him, thankfully. No one but the alpha in the window above, who doesn't seem capable of responding to it, too busy roaring in the room above him.  
  
"You all want to leave me? Is that it? You want to leave me? Fine! Go! You and the rest of these _ungrateful sluts_!"  
  
  
  
Waylon hobbles to his feet and limps away, certain the man will follow him down from the window, that their chase will continue. But the room above goes quiet. Outside, the alpha's scent is faint, clinging to his clothes. His body mourns the loss of it, disappointed that the alpha abandoned their chase, that the alpha doesn't want him. Waylon shakes his head, trying to clear the hormone haze, to focus on the important things. His camera. Getting out alive.  
  
The haze clears a bit in the cold air. He can feel the symptoms of his body more clearly. The dampness between his legs. The heat radiating off his skin. It still doesn't make sense, but it's undeniable. He's going to go into heat. And if he doesn't get out before then, then he's going to be bred, by whoever, or whatever, finds him first.  
  
He feels a surge of panic again. God, he has never felt so betrayed by his own body.  
  
A flash of blue catches his eye. A patient file lying on the nearby sidewalk, pages loose and scattered. Like it had been thrown from one of the higher windows. He reminds himself of his goal. No, his responsibility. To all the men he had helped maim and torture, however unwittingly. Including that fucking alpha. He limps over and collects it, opening it as he turns to the door.  
  
He stops. Eddie Gluskin, it says. Gender: Alpha male.  
  
Waylon remembers the name, Gluskin. The man on the top floor had murmured it in one of his many voices, but Waylon hadn't had time to put two and two together, until now. That was the alpha's name. Eddie Gluskin. Or as one of the voices had called him: The Groom.  
  
Waylon skims the file, hands trembling. His eyes catch on "childhood" and "traumatically violent sexual experience." Something like that would explain why he's not properly socialized for Alpha/Omega interaction.  
  
He goes cold at the next paragraph.  
  
_He similarly refuses to discuss his victims, both categorically and specifically. When I showed him pictures of the omega women, he would not admit that they were dead or mutilated._  
  
An omega killer. Betas were more common perpetrators of violence against omegas, but alphas were not unheard of, especially if they got their wires crossed by trauma or inadequate socialization. He shudders. His stupid animal body is readying itself for breeding in response to Gluskin's rut hormones, unknowing that the alpha's only intent is to rape and then murder him long before a litter would come to term.  
  
He wonders if it makes any difference that Gluskin's victims were omega women, specifically, and that he's an omega man. He knows that in some more backwater parts of the country, same sex alpha/omega pairs are still considered deviant. Waylon can only hope it makes him a less desirable catch in Gluskin's twisted brain, and that the Groom won't pursue him further.  
  
Waylon grits his teeth, angry at himself, angry at Gluskin. He films the pages of the file, and then leaves it on the ground where he found it, soaking in the evening dew. By morning the dew would dissolve the damp paper to mush.  
  
   
  
The only unblocked exit from the courtyard leads back into the same structure, but a different wing. Waylon makes his way cautiously into the dusty interior. Gluskin's rut scent is fainter here, but present, making his teeth itch. He finds himself at another gate, locked tight. There's no way through without a key.  
  
He huffs. His only option is to search the floor. He doesn't like it, with Gluskin's territory still so close.  
  
There are plenty of other men for him to chase and murder, he reasons. He's ignoring most of his rut instincts. He's not going to go to the trouble. Heat or no heat.  
  
He limps through the floor, and ends up in an old kitchen. There's a body jammed through a vent in one wall, a security guard. Waylon jumps up through a side vent to take a look, carefully checking the man's pockets, but his keys are missing. To his right, the vent opens up into another room, and Waylon grits his teeth until his jaw creaks.  
  
There's the sick smell of blood and decaying flesh. Lots and lots of it.  
  
Waylon moves toward it. He has no choice.  
  
Bodies, Waylon sees as he drops into the wide room on the other end of the vent. Dozens, suspended from the ceiling by a network of ropes. Naked, some still sluggishly dripping blood. Hours and hours must have gone into the meticulous, complex construction. Waylon swallows the bile in his throat as he skirts the edge of the room, trying hard to avoid walking under the dribbling corpses, or trip on the web of rope stretched across the floor. There are basketball hoops on the walls, and Waylon realizes with a jolt of recognition that this was a gymnasium at one point. An innocuous place, corrupted, turned into something gruesome and terrifying.  
  
Worse still, Waylon scents Gluskin all over it. He knows exactly who built this display. Whose collection this is.  
  
He makes his way into the hall, night vision on, scanning the floors wildly for keys. There's a locker room and showers to one side, and he ducks in, and nearly drops his camera when the gentle sing song voice of the Groom reaches him.  
  
" _When I was a boy.._."  
  
He's on this floor, Waylon realizes. Shit. _Shit. Why?!_  
  
He ducks and hides, peeking around corners, but he doesn't see the alpha, the singing always sounding like it's distant, a room or two away. Like the man is circling him. He shudders, trying to control his trembling, his breaths coming out in shaking huffs. He should go back. Try to find another way through the courtyard. Gluskin can't follow him through the vent.  
  
Just as he's about to make the decision, a bright spotlight catches his eye, illuminating a narrow hall. He peers in, and finds a chapel, chairs lining the walls, a long white carpet stretching up to the modest pulpit.  
  
A lone figure stands there, dressed in white. Waylon ducks back with a gasp, but then notices the stillness, the silence. Hesitantly, filled with inexplicable dread, he limps into the room.  
  
Something glimmers in the figure's hand. A key.  
  
Waylon bites his lip. It's a setup if he's ever seen one. But he doesn't have much choice. The Groom's singing is still distant, distracted. Maybe there's time.  
  
He lurches forward, floorboards creaking under him, despite trying to move as silently as he can. The figure in white is a corpse, hanging upright from ropes attached to the crossbeams, dressed in bloodstained omega wedding robes and a dirty veil. The stitching is definitely Gluskin's. Waylon's breaths sound obscene to his ears as he strides forward and pulls the key from the corpse's hand.  
  
"Filthy sluts!" The voice echoes down the narrow room, and Waylon whirls, catching sight of the alpha's huge form, silhouetted against the bright spotlight. "You're just like all the others!"  
  
Waylon scrambles to the side, clutching the key tight in his sweaty palm, praying it's for the right door. There's a side door, partially blocked with a toppled book shelf, and he lurches toward it, slipping through the tight space into the small room beyond.  
  
The Groom appears as he slips through the gap, face twisted and hateful, the wrathful scent of him permeating the room. "You don't deserve my children!" He spits venomously. "You don't even deserve to live!"  
  
Waylon jolts back like he's been slapped. His guts twist. It takes him a long moment to realize he's _furious_. HE'S the _omega_. HE decides who is worthy and who isn't. Not this _fucking_ alpha.  
  
He almost slaps himself. No, he says. It doesn't matter. He doesn't want an alpha, _any_ alpha. He loves Lisa. _Lisa_.  
  
He shakes himself as he lunges for the metal cabinet blocking the other door out. His pants are starting to stick to his inner thighs, and he determinedly does not think about what that means. His body is charged, exhilarated, delighted. The omega flight instinct. He does not think about that either.  
  
He's not going to go into heat. He's not.  
  
Waylon ducks back into the locker rooms, slipping through the shadows, as Gluskin circles. He's too hot, his pheromones spiking, most likely radiating aggression in response to the Groom's. Challenging, in a way that Waylon can't be directly. With slick on his thighs, his scent is thick in the rooms, permeating, making him difficult to track. The alpha clearly dislikes all of it, voice frayed at the edges as he screams at him through the dark. Waylon avoids him, but there's only so many places he can be, and he knows the alpha will track him down eventually.  
  
"You crazy bitch! You belong with the others!"  
  
Waylon snarls in the dark. No, he _doesn't_. He'll _prove_ it.  
  
He sees the door to the gym, and takes off running. His leg has numbed, the pre-heat hormones starting to dull his pain sense. Preparing him for brutal coupling. Behind him, he hears the sharp intake of breath as the alpha hears him, catching the adrenaline spike in his scent, and launches after him.  
  
As Waylon darts through the gym, trying not to trip over the ropes, an absurd and poisonous thought flits through his brain. Of letting the alpha catch him. It's a wild and unwelcome thought, and only for an instant, heat instinct trying to override his reasonable mind, arguing that it would feel so good, so right. But the bodies hanging above him don't let the instinct take hold. Maybe it would feel good. But he wouldn't survive.  
  
He grabs the edge of the vent, and pulls himself through, and behind him, the alpha roars. "Darling! _Whore_! I'll rip the womb from your rotten guts! You're nobody's mother!"  
  
Waylon bites his tongue, hard. Instinct demands that he answer, that he scream back. Waylon won. The omega escaped the alpha. It would finalize the rejection, if there was any uncertainty.  
  
He stays quiet. Yelling and screaming... It's not who he is. He buried his omega years ago. In some sense, he's as unsocialized as this alpha.  
  
He lies in the vent for a long few minutes, catching his breath. The corpse keeps him company.  
  
  
  
When he pulls himself out into the kitchen, it's quiet. The alpha scent is weak again here. Not part of the alpha's territory.  
  
Waylon feels his body sag. Relief, and disappointment.  
  
His womb lurches, reminding him that it's even more important that he get out of here as soon as possible. His pants aren't soaked through, but they're damp; the lubrication slowing outside of the pursuit, outside of the heavy rut pheromones, no longer needing to tempt and tease the alpha into following him. He rubs a hand against his lower belly, soothing the mild cramping that's started as his cervix changes position. His penis is half hard.  
  
If he can just get outside, he thinks, and find his car, he can drive to Lisa. She'll have emergency suppressants, and blockers, and he can still keep his secret safe. He just has to get to Lisa. He has to get home.  
  
He can barely think. He staggers out of the kitchen and into the light of the hall, fixated on the gate he needs to open, his camera clutched in one sweaty hand, the key in the other. His vision is blurry, after images of the Engine crawling behind his eyeballs. He pushes the key into the lock and hears it click.  
  
The alpha's scent floods the room. And then Waylon is being wrenched off his feet, and thrown to the floor. His breath is knocked out of him, but he scrabbles across the filthy concrete, spitting blood from where he'd cut his lip on his own teeth.  
  
"One more," the alpha snarls as he looms over him, grabbing him again and lifting him, tossing him like a doll. Waylon tumbles back into the gym; Gluskin had unlocked a set of double doors to reach him. Waylon hadn't even noticed them. The Groom's eyes are black, face twisted with rage. "I try, and I try, and you all betray me."  
  
He's being pushed back into the Groom's territory, he realizes. The man couldn't kill him in the hall, he had to bring him back here, to his trophy room. To add him to his possessions. HIS. The bodies sway lazily above him in the dark. Waylon sucks in a broken breath.  
  
God, he's going to die.  
  
"And you can hang like the rest of them," the alpha spits, straddling Waylon's small body as he flounders on the floor between the ropes. The man has a loose rope in his hand, a noose.  
  
It occurs to Waylon that Gluskin must still think he's one of his false omegas, like the ones hanging above them. Despite his heat scent, despite pushing his fingers into him, he still can't differentiate between a true and a homemade omega. Or maybe it doesn't matter. His madness demands that he kill, and his body demands that he breed, and it must be a constant war within him. More often, it seems, madness wins out.  
  
Waylon's panicked omegan scream tears out of him again, ignored again. This alpha doesn't know what it means. Or doesn't care.  
  
Waylon feels a surge through his body, a flood of warmth. He gasps in horror.  
  
The alpha _won_. And that means...  
  
Heat.  
  
He's barely aware of himself as he flips to his hands and knees beneath the Groom, even as the man reaches to drop the rope around his neck.  
  
Then Waylon pushes his ass up in the air, tilts his pelvis and bows his back, drops his face to the floor, and _presents_.  
  
  
  
The alpha freezes.  
  
Waylon can smell the scent of his confusion, as clearly as he can scent his own welcome. His acceptance. His submission. Even for this alpha it would be unmistakable.  
  
He's disgusted with himself.  
  
"Begging for forgiveness?" the alpha hisses, but his voice has a telling tremor to it. "You would dare toy with my heart like this, you wretched thing?"  
  
Waylon can't see him, won't look up from where he has his forehead pressed to the vile grit on the floor. Won't risk challenging him. But out of the corner of his eye, he sees the rope hit the floor. He smells the alpha's scent change.  
  
He feels another excited surge of heat rip through his body, and a gush of slick oozes from his cunt. The scent tinges the air. He hears the alpha's jaw creak as he opens his mouth wide, pulling it in.  
  
Waylon chokes down a sob. He knows he could still fight. If he wanted to, he could push up now, and run. The door is open. With the Groom dizzy and reeling from his heat scent, from his submission, there's a chance he could make it.  
  
He won't. Because he doesn't WANT to.  
  
The worst thing is that he knows it's not just the heat. Any omega in heat retains the wherewithal to reject, and fight. HE wants this. He had buried himself under suppressants and blockers for years, convinced himself that he could be happy with his sweet Lisa, and his two baby boys.  
  
He could have been. If he had never had a heat again. And especially, if he had never engaged in mating pursuit with THIS alpha.  
  
The alpha plants a firm hand on Waylon's back, and Waylon doesn't even care if he dies. He wants him. This alpha. He'll have him or be dead. Those are his only options.  
  
He realizes that the Morphogenic Engine probably did more damage to him that he had thought. But then the alpha collapses on top of him, digging his knees into Waylon's calves, and it doesn't matter. Nothing matters more than this.  
  
  
  
Waylon's leg wound is on fire under the Groom's weight as he pins him down, but it's only a flash and then it's gone as the man digs his fingers into his hips and more hormones flood Waylon's brain. Waylon is well on his way into heat, his pussy slick, the muscles of his canal and cervix expanding, preparing to accept an alpha knot, an alpha's copious amounts of semen. It shouldn't be possible, but it's happening, and he can't pretend it's not anymore. He opens his mouth wide and flares his nostrils, breathing in more and more of the alpha's scent, hurrying the process. Helpless.  
  
"You don't deserve it," Gluskin growls, but his massive hands are stroking down Waylon's flanks, almost soothing. Possessive. "But I... Oh, I am such a softhearted man, my love. And you look so pretty like this..."  
  
The alpha's scent spikes again; this long into an unsated rut, a normal alpha would have been aroused to near madness, beyond words. But Gluskin was well into madness before the rut. It's his territory.  
  
As the Groom bends over him and rubs his still clothed, rigid cock against Waylon's damp ass, Waylon can't help himself. He makes a deep and satisfied sound. An omegan purr.  
  
Gluskin shakes against him, a full body tremble. Waylon realizes he's probably the first of Gluskin's victims to submit, in Mount Massive. The other patients may be crazy but it doesn't make them stupid; their instincts and reason would demand they run and fight. The omega women from before would have scented something off about him. His mental illness is a taint in his scent, faint and buried under his fertility and strength, but something any omega would have scented, would have avoided.  
  
Waylon's not _any_ omega. He smells the illness, and pulls it in past his teeth. Savors it. Fuck, he's so lost.  
  
He knows it's why he's not dead right now.  
  
"Forgive me," Gluskin groans, and then there's a tearing, and Waylon's patient jumpsuit comes apart at the waist, exposing his ass and thighs to the air. "It was unbecoming of you anyway. I will make you a bonding gown, and a wedding gown, and we will have a proper ceremony... after. I promise."  
  
Waylon shudders, bile rising in his throat even as his cock throbs beneath the tattered remains of his suit. Bonding. He could have let the Groom fuck him, could have walked away pregnant even, but he could have walked away. Bonded... He could still. But it would leave a mark on him. Take a piece of him.  
  
Gluskin would be in his blood.  
  
If he had bonded with Lisa, he would have been safe. But neither of them had placed importance on that, and it would have required Waylon coming off suppressants and going through a heat, and Lisa shooting up alpha hormones for months before, and it might not have taken right away even after all of that. It just hadn't seemed important enough.  
  
He thinks of how he's failing Lisa, and he can't stop himself, resisting instinct one last time. He pushes up onto his hands and tries to squirm away, but the Groom is still pinning his legs with his knees, and has him tight around his hips, already spreading his ass cheeks and looking down at the tiny pucker of his hole, the smooth, soft split leading to his dripping cunt. He doesn't even notice Waylon's final bid for freedom, far too late.  
  
"So wet for me," Gluskin growls, and Waylon doesn't even remember hearing him take his cock out, but he's pulling Waylon back onto it sharply, and suddenly he's fucked, in more ways than one.  
  
The head is still huge and hot against his lips, but his body is ready now, slick easing the way, his muscles opening up hungrily. Waylon lets out a choked sob as the Groom pulls him backward into the cup of his hips, and he feels the head pop in, the wet, red skin of his pussy stretched tight around the rolls of foreskin. It burns, but it's good, so fucking good, the head slotting inside and rubbing all the walls of his unused pussy at once. His cock jumps against his belly.  
  
"You really are a virgin," Eddie grunts, voice cracking, bewildered. He sounds as wrecked as Waylon is. He shifts them sharply, letting Waylon's legs slip out from under his, so he can spread his legs further apart and force his cock in further. Waylon's chest heaves as he feels the full, slow plunge, the ridge of the glans slotting up against the tight furl of his cervix. Farther than he's ever been penetrated. And then deeper, until he feels the loose skin of the knot slide inside, and the wiry pubic hair and rough fabric rub against his soft wet skin. Fully seated. Another omegan purr rumbles through Waylon's chest. It feels... It feels...  
  
"Heaven," the Groom groans breathily. "Oh Darling, you are..." Then he's pulling out, and Waylon throws his hands back and clenches the Groom's hands where they're held tight to his hips, but Eddie only pulls out an inch or so before he pushes back in, a little too hard, but it's so good, so good and right, and Waylon forgets why he was worried about bonding, or Murkoff, or monsters, or anything at all.  
  
Eddie fucks him, quick short stabs of his cock, until he's dripping wet inside with slick and precome and the slide is easily. Then he pushes his thumbs into Waylon's back and bows him, pressing his chest back to the floor while keeping his hips up tight against his. The mounting position, for optimal conception.  
  
"I am going to flood you, Darling," the Groom huffs as he presses his face against Waylon's hair, teeth sharp against his scalp. His hips work in short, mean bursts, more like an animal than a man, rutting desperately. Waylon takes it, squirming at how good it is, how his body lights up with pleasure in ways it never has before. "I'm going to tie us together, in more ways than one. Our children... Oh god, they'll be magnificent..."  
  
Waylon can't answer, beyond words. He huffs and cries and only animal sounds come out. The smell of their coupling is all he can scent, even over the corpses in the room.  
  
And then he feels it. A particularly vicious cramp in his belly, his cervix softening.  
  
Eddie can scent it, instinctually, even if he's never smelled it before. Waylon can tell, because he fucks him harder, desperate.  
  
Waylon's ovulating. His eggs have just dropped into his womb. Ready and waiting for the alpha's sperm.  
  
  
  
Waylon wonders how many there'll be. Omega eggs drop in a cluster. No less than four. As many as eight. Full fertilization usually occurs with an alpha's high sperm count. A true litter, the result of alpha/omega mating that no other pairing can produce. They'd be small at birth, smaller than a beta's children, but they'd grow rapidly. Omegas were lucky in that department, the smaller birth size of their young enabling them to endure many, many more pregnancies than betas.  
  
Betas only drop an egg or two at a time when ovulating. It's another reason why Lisa had wanted to carry, despite it being so much harder on her body. If it had been Waylon, even with a beta donor's low sperm count, they could have ended up with triplets or even quadruplets. More children than they might be able to provide for, without a large family unit. And Waylon's pregnant hormones would have affected Lisa's body, forcing her breasts to swell with milk, a biologically obligated wet nurse for his children.  
  
Plus, Lisa's children could only be betas. Waylon's litters would always contain one alpha or omega, the rest betas, a built in family support unit for the alpha's or omega's eventual multitudes of offspring. He hadn't wanted to bring more of them into the world, hadn't wanted his children to be born into that expectation. He didn't want his children to suffer. Like his father had suffered.  
  
He doesn't remember any of that now. Only thinks of the strength of the alpha holding him down, how strong their children will be. Breathes in the virility of him.  
  
The Groom isn't speaking anymore, his own chest vibrating with an alpha purr, loud and aggressive, closer to a growl. Waylon knows he's safe until the man comes, at least, completely focused on achieving his own orgasm and filling his omega's womb. The man could miss the bonding window, could be so overcome that he forgets, and there could be a chance for Waylon to get away.  
  
Waylon digs his dirty nails into the Groom's knuckles. They're both sweating, and Gluskin's hands keep slipping on his hips. Waylon considers grabbing his own cock, hard and insistent between his thighs, knowing it'll bring him off. If he comes early, the impregnation could fail. He could get away scott free after the knotting, if Gluskin takes his eyes off him for even a moment.  
  
But he can't bring himself to. He thinks the stimulation would drive him crazy, his walls tightening as the alpha cock is still pistoning inside him, his cervix flexing, trying to carry sperm into his womb that's not yet released. Agony. Failure.  
  
It's the alpha's job to make him come, anyway. Gluskin will probably forget. Waylon could still get out of this.  
  
The only warning he gets is a grunt, and the alpha purr cutting off abruptly. Then the Groom pulls back and thrusts long and deep, once, twice. And then the knot pops inside Waylon's pussy and he feels the first surge of come.  
  
Waylon had watched alpha porn, once or twice, when he was still figuring himself out. He'd seen an alpha knot his own hand, had seen how quickly the soft flesh at the base had filled and hardened as the sperm began to pump through it. He had squirmed and closed the browser window and tried not to think about that happening in his own hole, how unpleasant it must be.  
  
It's anything but.  
  
Gluskin's knot inflates, and it's hot and solid and huge and if Waylon thought the man's cock hit all of the right places, god, he didn't know, he couldn't have imagined. Gluskin humps Waylon's body a couple more times, testing the knot, and Waylon almost screams, feeling how fixed it is inside, tugging against a rim that's tightening, tightening-  
  
Then the Groom's hand slips down to his little hard omega cock and pulls at him three quick times and Waylon starts to come. It's so intense and next to painful that for a moment Waylon thinks he's going to piss himself, but then his pussy ripples, a contraction, and it's closing so tightly around the knot inside him, his cervix pulsing against the head of the alpha's penis as it ejaculates, sucking the alpha seed into itself, guaranteeing impregnation.  
  
Waylon sobs, half elation, half horror. The Groom resumes purring, stroking Waylon's little cock through his orgasm, using the omega's clear ejaculate to slick him up. He continues to pulse inside him, filling him with more come.  
  
They could mate another three or four times, if Gluskin doesn't kill him, if Waylon doesn't run. Guaranteeing a full litter. Waylon's womb would swell with his mate's semen, his belly distending almost painfully. He'll continue to feel contractions for days as he absorbs the remaining sperm into his womb, nutrition for his future pups.  
  
"I can't believe I almost lost you," Gluskin murmurs suddenly, his voice rumbling as he speaks through his alpha purr. His grip on Waylon's penis tightens. "Imagine... Some people say it's wrong for us to be together, just because of this little... thing. We showed them, didn't we. Look how well we fit." He pushes his hips tighter against Waylon's ass, feeling the way Waylon's pussy grips him, sucks him in. Waylon gasps, pressing his cheek against the filthy floor.  
  
There's still a chance for him, he thinks, if-  
  
Then Gluskin folds himself over him and pushes his nose against Waylon's throat, and Waylon's tilting his jaw up before he even considers what that means, and then the Groom's sharp straight teeth are in his throat, biting down against his scent glands, bruising, drawing blood.  
  
Waylon howls. He struggles, even as Gluskin pins him down with his heavy body, skewered on his still pulsing cock. It's omegan instinct to struggle, to test in this final moment, before the decision is final. Gluskin holds him firm. There's no escape.  
  
Waylon starts to salivate, his mouth flooding with his own bonding hormones. He twists and growls. He flexes his pelvis cruelly, tugging on the alpha's sensitive knot. Gluskin releases him with a snarl, almost as if he's about to shout, but Waylon's already twisting his small body and latching onto the alpha's throat.  
  
Returning the bonding bite. Waylon never even questioned whether he would, because he knew he would, from the first moment he noticed how strong this alpha was.  
  
Gluskin's breath stutters in his throat. And then he goes lax, the tension melting out of him. Submitting to his omega's teeth.  
  
Waylon's belly flips. He holds Gluskin's throat in his mouth and bites just shy of too hard, and breathes there, tonguing his skin, tasting their bonding hormones.  
  
Anyone in the building will start to smell them. The combined scent of a bonded pair.  
  
They'll smell him. Pregnant omega.  
  
Waylon growls, giving way to a purr. He releases Gluskin's neck, strands of spittle dribbling between his lips and the marked flesh, but the man just lies there against him, their bodies crumpled between the network of ropes, the corpses swinging lazily above them. A part of Waylon that he'd spent his whole life suppressing and ignoring flares to life, and is content.  
  
Waylon is a different animal than he was before.  
  
Bonding isn't permanent, not in this modern age. Waylon knows he could still escape. A few years of hormone and scent therapy, after the babies are born. Plastic surgery for the bite. His scent glands would have to be removed, and potentially his reproductive organs, which have all already started to change in response to the bites. This is the only man who could ever get him pregnant again. But he could be something close to normal again.  
  
Bonded, without therapy, he would be in agony without this man. He would never be able to have sex with Lisa, or any other person. He might even hurt them, if they tried to touch him. His boys weren't his biological children, so even they would present as potential threats. Outsiders.  
  
He sobs over the purring in his chest. Would Lisa really stay with him through that?  
  
Would he _want_ her to?  
  
  
  
  
Gluskin's knot deflates as quickly as it had inflated, a sudden sucking pop as the skin loosens and his cock slips out, still half hard, in a rush of fluids. Waylon's still in heat, and Gluskin's still in rut, and Waylon knows it won't go completely soft until Waylon's sated.  
  
This is the time he should run, Waylon thinks. But then the Groom is lifting him, pushing the remnants of the prison jumpsuit off of his arms and legs. He scoops him up bridal style, and Waylon falls back into the cradle of his arms wearily, feeling a gentle tremor running through them, the wobble of Gluskin's knees under him. He gets his first look at the Groom's face since they'd started.  
  
Gluskin's staring at him, open mouthed and panting, as if he doesn't quite believe he's there. His eyes are still black, pupils dilated wide. The bite on his neck is bleeding sluggishly, the skin already purpling around it. His lips are parted, scenting, as if he can't stop breathing in their combined scent.  
  
Waylon tries to stop himself from reaching up and gently touching the bite. He really does.  
  
Gluskin's eyes flutter closed at the feel of his fingertips. It's like the violence has bled out of him.  
  
"Finally," he huffs, satisfied.  
  
Staggering, Gluskin picks his way through the ropes stretching across the floor, and leaves the gym behind. Waylon's camera stays there too. He's done, he realizes.  
  
He's not getting out.  
  
Gluskin carries him up two flights of stairs, past the chapel and up through the bloody workshop, then into the sewing rooms. He carries him into a locked room there, hidden in the shadows, that contains a narrow bed, where he deposits Waylon. It smells like Eddie, and is relatively clean, albeit dusty.  
  
As he locks the door behind him, Waylon's already spreading his legs. He has no choice. He's not running.  
  
Eddie strips his clothes, revealing his scarred, muscular body, and he pushes his cock into Waylon's tight pussy again and fucks him face to face. Waylon kisses his mouth, licking his teeth, and Eddie doesn't seem to know how to kiss back, mouthing and biting at Waylon's lips and jaw in response, growling happily.  
  
Waylon comes twice on his cock before he knots, his cunt more pliable now that it's been knotted once. Eddie would be able to fuck him outside of heat, now. Waylon will probably never come without a cock inside him again. That's fine with him.  
  
As he's cooling off from the third orgasm, Eddie's knot lodged firm in his pussy, Eddie sits up over him and strokes his broad hands up and down his body. He fits his hands over where his belly has already begun to swell and groans. He sucks at his nipples, easing the ache in them as his ducts prepare to produce milk.  
  
After his knot has gone down, that time, Eddie eats him out, and Waylon is sobbing by the end of it, real tears streaking his face. It's exquisite, and it's agony, and it's so intimate and it's this man who tried to kill him and he hates it and he loves it, hates himself and loves his mate.  
  
  
  
The third time they've knotted, Waylon's in the mounting position again, Gluskin bowed over him, and Waylon hears boards creaking. He wonders if it's the man upstairs, if the beta who drove him into this is spying on them, seeing the product of his work bearing fruit. The smell of them must permeate the whole block now, a warning for anyone who smells it to keep clear.  
  
  
  
The fourth time is the last time, and Waylon feels like he's already pregnant, belly stretched tight and full, a noticeable bump. He pushes Eddie over and rides him, and Eddie looks up at him like he's miraculous.  
  
They lie in bed after and doze. Eddie hasn't said much, more exhausted than Waylon because of his prolonged rut. The violence has gone out of him, for now. Still, Waylon silently panics.  
  
The sun has started to come up. There's a set of narrow windows in the room, brightening with the dawn. Waylon rolls over properly and looks at his new mate in the soft morning light.  
  
A monster. Face twisted and deformed. Scars and blisters running down his chin and neck. Streaked with dirt and old blood.  
  
Waylon shivers. He'd let that monster fuck him.  
  
Waylon pushes his hand down between his legs and feels his opening, wondering if he could get Eddie to fuck him one more time. The lips of his cunt are swollen and warm, the hole impossibly tight and small in his post heat. He doesn't know how that knot ever fit inside.  
  
He hears a creak again, swears he sees the bright flash of eyes through the floorboards above him. Or maybe he's hallucinating it. He growls anyway.  
  
Eddie rolls over him then, still half asleep, and scents him, like a cat, rubbing his jaw on Waylon's hair, his cheeks. Soothing.  
  
"See, Darling," Eddie murmurs. "Was that so bad?"  
  
Waylon laughs. It's a hysterical sound, but Eddie seems to like it. He grins as he pushes himself up, pulling his pants on. "I am going to find you some breakfast, my dear mate. I know how fragile an omega is after their mating season. And then later, we can discuss the formal ceremony. Ah, I will make you a lavish gown, and then we will be mated AND married, a proper couple." He bends, and gently cups Waylon's bare belly, kissing it. Almost in a whisper, he says, "Our children will want for nothing. I promise you."  
  
Waylon swallows hard as the man opens the door and steps into the hall. His eyes feel hot.  
  
He sits up, looks for a second at the dust motes drifting in the dawn sunlight. Suppresses the panic again. And then he hears a loud bang, and men shouting outside. He stands, frantic, at the sound of boots on the creaking wood. He grabs for Eddie's discarded shirt and throws it on. Strange scents flood the air, multiple men, betas, gun oil and metal. His gut lurches. He claws at the doorknob, but then it's flying at him, kicked open. He staggers back, bare thighed, stinking of heat and rut, bonding and pregnancy.  
  
An armed soldier looks in at him, dressed in black. His nose wrinkles, and he shouts, "Got an omega here!"  
  
"What?!" another voice answers. "A patient?"  
  
"I'm not-" Waylon says, voice cracking, as he raises a hand to clutch his belly.  
  
Then the soldier raises his gun and fires.  
  
  
  
When Waylon opens his eyes, it's white, and clean, and sterile, and it's been a long time. Hours. Maybe days.  
  
His eyes are blurry and his leg is on fire, and he can't smell anything. As memory slowly returns, so does the panic.  
  
His hand flies to his belly. It's still tight with his alpha's spend. Still pregnant with his litter.  
  
It was a tranquilizer, he remembers. The dart had hit him in the chest, and he had pulled it out, just before everything went black.  
  
"Waylon?" he hears, and oh god, it's Lisa's voice, it's Lisa, and he's shaking and his breath is catching in his teeth as he's pushing himself up. "Take it easy, it's okay, don't push yourself, baby, you've been through so much..."  
  
His surroundings come into focus. He's in a plastic box, some kind of permanent isolation unit, to trap potential contamination. There are two double entry door in two of the walls, like the ones in Mount Massive, for sterilizing entrants. He's on a white cot. There's an IV drip in his arm. He's clean, and his leg hurts, but it's bandaged and his foot looks fine beneath the bandages, so he can only hope he's not going to lose it to infection.  
  
Lisa is on the other side of the glass. Plastic curtains surround the unit, hanging from the high ceilings.  
  
There's distant moaning. Other Mount Massive patients. He's grown intimate with the sound of them.  
  
"Lisa," he says, choking on her name, and he's so glad he can't scent her, that she can't smell him. "I'm so sorry, baby, I... I tried so hard to get back to you, all I wanted was to get back to you."  
  
She's nodding, and he takes her in, the dark circles under her eyes, her disheveled hair. She won't look at him in the eye, not directly. His voice is quiet and tight when he asks, "Where are the boys?"  
  
"At your parents'," she says. "They're okay, don't worry." She glances at him. "I know what happened. I need you to know that it's okay."  
  
Waylon can barely breath, his eyes welling. "I'm so sorry-"  
  
"Shut up," she snarls, and he does, because Lisa, Lisa never yells at him. Then she looks up and her eyes are wet and so sad. "Waylon, I was replacing your suppressants with placebos. That's why you went into heat."  
  
Waylon's body goes cold. Numb. "W-what-"  
  
"They knew what you were when they hired you," she says, and she can't look at him anymore, will never look him in the eye again. "I didn't know that, but then Blaire came by the house a couple months ago and he... They would have outed you and your career would have been over and then... It was so much money, Waylon, our boys could go to any school they wanted, and I knew you would say yes if they had asked you, but they said you couldn't know, that it was part of the test-" She sniffles, and rubs at her running nose. She's so pretty. So ugly. He loves her and he hates her. "It was supposed to happen under controlled circumstances, something about studying the effects of their experiments on rut and heat. They said you weren't going to be touched, that they wouldn't allow bonding, o-or-" She stops, and she can't talk anymore.  
  
He sucks in a breath, and another. He feels like he's gone off the edge of a cliff, but instead of falling, the world just tilted 90 degrees, and now he's standing on the side of the cliff, and the ocean is sideways above him, and that's just how life is from here on. His heart keeps beating.  
  
"Did they kill him?" he asks, and she already knows who he means. She shakes her head.  
  
"They wanted to make sure he wasn't a threat to you," she answers, jerking her chin toward one of the doors. Waylon wobbles toward it, and then he can make out the shape of another isolation unit, connected to his, and there's a bed in it on its side and Gluskin is pacing back and forth across it, growling, blood streaking his arm where he tore out his IV. When he sees Waylon, he stops, and recognition floods him, and then he's throwing himself at the door. Off to the side, he makes out the shape of a doctor clad in a white suit, warning Gluskin to calm down.  
  
"Is this Murkoff?" Waylon asks tightly, pressing his hands to the glass, but turning and looking at Lisa over his shoulder.  
  
She can't look at him. "It's going to be different here."  
  
  
  
After Lisa leaves, and a doctor is able to calm Eddie and get him to stand still in front of the door, they let him into Waylon's unit. Waylon trembles as he stands ready for him, remembering how the man had ignored his omega calls, how he had almost raped him outside of heat, how he would have hanged him if he hadn't presented, but then Eddie is sweeping him up in his arms and pressing him onto the bed, scenting him, pressing kisses to his belly, to his face, to the bandaged bonding bite. And Waylon sobs, and lets himself respond to it.  
  
The doctors pull the plastic sheets around their unit and then Waylon lets Eddie knot him. He knows there are probably cameras on them but he doesn't care. His cunt is experienced now that they've consummated properly, and it doesn't even hurt when the knot swells. It's only pressure and pleasure, and Waylon drinks it in and cries, and Eddie kisses his face in distress and licks at his tears and tries to comfort him.  
  
"We're going to get out of here," Eddie promises quietly. "I'm going to make an honest omega of you, before our children are born. I swear it."  
  
  
  
The months that follow really are different, but only on the surface. There are tests, mostly blood tests, and scans, and probes. His babies grow inside him, and the doctor doing the sonogram tells him he has five, maybe six. Eddie preens at the news. Waylon feels sick.  
  
Murkoff has him. Who knows what they'll do with his children.  
  
Lisa comes by often, but he doesn't talk to her. They've been confirmed clean of radiation or other hazards, uncontaminated, so the doctors open the vents to the outside, and he can smell her again, and she can smell him. She sits with him for long hours and lets his pregnant scent change her body. "I'm going to be here for you," she tells him, her jaw set.  
  
Eddie doesn't know who she is, only that she smells a little like Waylon, and when he realizes that she's preparing to nurse he stops snarling at her and accepts her presence. With five pups, they'll need a beta.  
  
Waylon doesn't think it's going to work out like they want.  
  
Eddie is... better. He's charming, and sweet, and then he'll smell the wrong doctor's scent on Waylon and he'll smash whatever he can find against the walls. But he doesn't hit Waylon. The man is a poor alpha, in a lot of ways, but in his commitment to his mate, he stays true. The abusive and monstrous Groom from Mount Massive doesn't show his face, except rarely, in quiet moments when he's buried to the hilt in Waylon's body, and Waylon thinks he sees that manic look in his eyes again, the flash of white teeth in the dark.  
  
There are indications that things are going to go wrong. Waylon scents Blaire. There are whispers about a second Engine. In the dark, late in the night, Waylon lies awake and hears screaming.  
  
  
  
  
It's one of these nights, and Eddie is lying awake with him, sensing Waylon's distress. Then there's the sound of a door sliding open, and Waylon sits up, and Lisa's standing just inside their door, wearing running shoes, holding a stolen keycard.  
  
"Come on," she says urgently. "We don't have much time."  
  
Waylon breathes in Eddie's scent. Eddie pushes himself to his feet, and helps Waylon out of bed. Waylon's belly is large and full. The children will be born in a month.  
  
He's still angry at her. But she's no longer his wife, and it's because of choices he made. If he hadn't submitted to Eddie, they would have pulled his body from the ceiling of that gymnasium, but he would have still been himself. He thinks he'll tell her that, someday.  
  
He's still angry at her. But he's angrier at Murkoff, furious, consumed with the kind of wrath and loathing that only an omega can feel, when their children are threatened. Because they're his and he loves them.  
  
He and Eddie see eye to eye on that thing, at least. In that way, they're a perfect fit. They'll never let anything happen to the children.  
  
So he trusts Lisa, one more time. And they go.  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> "Arbor" should be "ardor" and I still don't know if it's a character choice or the writer/voice actor made a mistake so I refuse to accept it's deliberate until notified otherwise.
> 
> Notes on typos or light critique are welcome. Thank you for reading, and happy Mother's Day ;)


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